“I don’t get intimidated,” she says, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth for the first time today. “Certainly not by someone with such awful taste in pets.”
Ouch.
I mean, not really. Oscar is awesome. I don’t need nobody to tell me that. But that’s a personal attack right there. That’s my son she just dissed. I can’t sleep tonight if I don’t strike back—what, and miss an opportunity for free entertainment? Not I.
“Well, what if I don’t get intimidated by cat people who sit around reading all day?” I ask.
Her face goes flat with horror.
“So you’ve been spying on me,” she states. “I’ve never heard someone insult someone by admitting that.”
“Like some kind of creep? Nah, I just happened to notice, you know? It’s like living in a house by the beach and not expecting me to marvel at the view on a clear day.”
I realize too late what I’m saying, and I feel my face go hot with embarrassment.
Oscar runs over and nibbles at my foot as if to say the same thing I’m thinking: Great going, genius. This is why you don’t have any friends. But I take a deep breath and remember what Arthur said about fighting the pits. Oftentimes it takes a fight.
“I’ve got to go,” she says.
“Wait,” I say. There’s no way I can leave this conversation having just admitted to her that I think she’s…well…a view worth marveling at on a clear day. God, I cringe at how that sounds. Like bootleg Shakespeare. “Just going to leave without telling me your name?”
“Names are for people you plan to see again,” she says. This girl is pure ice inside. But it intrigues me, so I keep on. I’ve got nothing to lose. She already thinks I have horrible taste in pets and zero poetic talent. Besides, I’ve got all afternoon.
“Or for people you hope to see again,” I say.
Nice, I think. This time, her cheeks go pink, and I smile triumphantly. She frowns, rolls her eyes. “Billie,” she says. “Yes, I’m sure it can be a girl’s name. In fact, it’s the name of the girl you could learn from in the gardening department. You know, because she reads books.”
“Only if she promises to teach me,” I say. I’m not sure where this confidence is coming from, but I’m eating it up. My heart is pounding, but I’m having fun! Maybe this is what my extrovert friends have been talking about all this time. This “socializing” stuff.
“This girl doesn’t make promises,” she says, looking me up and down. “Especially to a nameless kid she just met.”
“Bastian,” I say, “Short for Sebastian. Spell it B-A-S-T-I-A-N, but pronounce it however, I’m used to it by now. Pronouns are he and him. Aquarius sun, Cancer moon, Sagittarius rising—”
“Bastian,” she says, cutting me off. “Cool. Still, no promises.”
“Come on,” I beg. “What if I just want to learn? What if I want to learn how to cook with these because I’m tired of takeout?”
“Count yourself lucky,” she says, straightening and folding her arms. “We don’t eat it unless we cook it in this house.”
“Damn,” I say. That’s dedication. Must mean her parents are home all the time, then. “Do your parents work?”
“Course,” she scoffs, wrinkling her nose, “We all cook over here, not just my parents. Wai— Why am I still out here answering your questions?” She grabs the window to close it again.
“Because we’re both quarantined,” I say, “and bored, stuck at home, with nothing to do but kill time.”
“Some of us still have responsibilities,” she says.
“Like what, vacuuming? Takes five minutes.” I shrug. “Come on, my therapist said I should work on making new friends. You know how hard that is to do in lockdown?”
“You could start by not letting your dog bark at all hours of the night. Y’lose more friends that way.”
“Quicker than hucking cats through people’s windows?” I say with a laugh. I fold my arms, awkwardly because my arm is still stuck in an L shape.
“Hey, that’s a low blow. I apologized for Ruby’s behavior…and I didn’t huck her.”
“I’m kidding,” I say. “But that joke was in poor taste. Look, why don’t we just start over, huh? I’m sorry for my dog barking so loud over here, and you’re sorry for your cat jumping through my window. Fair?”
“You still suck at gardening,” she says. I’d assume it’s playful but her mouth is completely flat.
“How do you know?” I launch back. I look down at my plants, which I just planted a week ago. “They look fine! Bright green and lush and happy!”
“Just look at your planter box,” she says, motioning to it with her chin, “with your ‘light-skinned soil-havin’ ass.”
“Oh, and you can do better?” I ask.
“You said I could do better.” Oh no, the head wag is out now.
“Did I say you could do better, or did I say they look ready for harvest?” If all else fails in an argument, you can always catch them on a technicality.
“How would you know they’re ready for harvest if you don’t even cook?”
“You own a cat. Your apartment probably smells like cat. How do you know they’re ready for harvest if you can’t even smell them?”
“Ruby doesn’t smell,” she growls, but she’s wearing a trace of a smile. “Besides, you have a dog. How do you smell anything?”
“My dog doesn’t pee in the house like a cat!” I tease.
“Well, maybe if he did, you wouldn’t have to risk your life out here taking him to do his business.”
“Actually, my mom takes him for most of the day,” I say. I can’t help my voice getting a bit softer and sadder. “She…drives. People. For money. You know. She, uh…got laid off, so this is an in-between thing for her.”
There’s silence between us, and I can’t decide if Billie—so
